


Ocean-Blue Eyes

by foralois



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depressed Sherlock, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jealous Sherlock, Poetry, Sad Sherlock, Self-Harm, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, idk how to do tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 16:09:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7514662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foralois/pseuds/foralois
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock always knew her eyes were a nicer shade of blue.</p><p>Sherlock is depressed because Mary and John are a couple, and being asked to play violin at their wedding is a brutal task.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ocean-Blue Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> heyy this is my first story on here, yes this is a oneshot and idk what happened here  
> this is a vent oneshot, and I've decided there isn't enough sad Sherlock in the fandom I mean where are all the feels  
> ^^ at John's wedding rip  
> triggering content! 
> 
> I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters! This is a fanfiction, created with no means of stealing any of the original owner's content.
> 
> (I will be editing this for the course of the next few days, and possibly adding things in - just to improve and make the story better, thank you!)

Sherlock thought he knew. He may have been standing closer to John - around 40cm closer, Sherlock estimated - but John's sole focus was fixed was the woman standing 40cm further away. 

Sherlock always knew her eyes were a nicer shade of blue. 

Even John knew. That's why he locked gaze with a woman, not a man. That's why he held hands with small slender fingers, not long, knobbly ones. That's why his smile was flashed at a slender, pretty face, not an ugly, pitiful one. That's why John loved Mary, not Sherlock.

Sherlock had never wanted John's attention to be focused on anyone but him. When he praised Sherlock for the deductions he made on a daily basis he felt his stomach gain butterflies. When Sherlock found John sitting in his chair, his chair, his face had flushed. When Sherlock found the texts on John's phone, he had cried. Emotionless, sociopath Sherlock. Emotional, human Sherlock. 

What was John doing to him?

Sherlock and John had never been in a relationship, although Sherlock had found his heart and soul willing to be. He had taken attention to how white John's teeth were when he smiled that smile at him. When Sherlock was at a crime scene the murders had inexplicably become more difficult to solve, because more than half the time was spent staring at John. Sherlock found himself noticing every little detail about John, until he was sure he could map him out in his brain. John occupied every waking thought of Sherlock's. Now Sherlock didn't think John did the same. Truth be told, he never had. 

When Sherlock had been in a state of depression, John had helped him. Everything he hated about himself, John had taught him to love. Sherlock reminisced to the time John caught him branding all of his self hatred and worry and trouble onto his skin with his own fists.

The slam of the door was all Sherlock needed to quickly cover his stomach with his hands and stare up in absolute fear. 

"J-John!" Sherlock stuttered, mortified. He sat with only his boxers on, his whole body embellished with gruesome shades of purple and John, with the doctor in him arising, saw some serious damage to his arms. Some of them would surely take months to heal, and they would ultimately be painful until that time. What John noticed with shock and horror at first was that all of these bruises were indeed self inflicted. Why else would Sherlock be sitting in nearly no clothes? Allowing access to damage all skin he hadn't before, of course. John was frozen in fright for his friend, although, allowing all corresponding thoughts to fade into nothing. John had just caught Sherlock self-harming.

However, Sherlock was in a state of panic. John had just caught him self harming. Although it didn't count as self harming because it wasn't cutting, right? Right? 

What scared Sherlock more, though, was that he was sitting in almost nothing. John is going to think he's fat and he's avoided exposing skin at all times because of this, always wearing his long sleeved jacket with the collar up even to hide his neck. His fat neck. John had assumed it was something to do with how Sherlock would want a dramatic exit. Sherlock only wanted the opposite. 

Sherlock was invisible, yet seen and judged by everyone.

A fear that John will see him and see him as Sherlock, just Sherlock, consumed him. Ugly, fat, Sherlock. Sherlock's pupils were dilated to an insane extent and the amount of thoughts he was processing at once gave him an instant headache. 

Johnisgoingtohatemejohnpleasestayjohndontleaveipromiseillhideandthiswonthappenagainandwecanforgetaboutitjohnjohnpleasejohn

"Sherlock." John said in a gentle, caring voice. Sherlock felt his heart drop. Was John going to leave him? 

Words weren't spoken after that. John slowly walked over to Sherlock's battered and bruised body, sitting on the bed, and lifted the duvet. Sherlock sat on the end of the bed, eyes widened, unable of working out what he was going to do next. John proceeded to throw his jacket on the floor, and undress himself to only his boxers. Sherlock's eyes knitted in confusion at first but quickly analysed the gesture.

John was exposing himself. He was exposing John, just as Sherlock was exposing Sherlock, as to not make him feel alone. An explicit trust in not to laugh or judge was quietly placed in Sherlock, and he felt his eyes tearing up. Some tears escaped and soon flowed like a waterfall, O' God, he can't stop crying, with all his emotions that he had pent up just spilling over, bursting through and Sherlock had kept it hidden for so long-

John stepped forward and quickly enveloped himself in the covers of Sherlock's bed. Sherlock only looked in shock and hope and comfort as John lifted his arm, his hand holding the duvet. Inviting Sherlock in. 

Sherlock quietly, yet screaming inside, walked over to the side of the bed. He slipped in beside John, right beside John, and John engulfed them both with the duvet, wrapping his arm around Sherlock. Sherlock started to shake with grateful and unsettled sobs, but the warmth of John pressed up against him soon coaxed him to sleep.

Sherlock was forever grateful for that. He was sure he'd have took his own life soon after if it hadn't happened. 

John had talked to him. Understood him. Sherlock could slowly but surely see himself falling in 'love'.

John had made him happy. John had pulled him from the abyss that he had fell into more than once, of self hatred and introversy and everything that weighed him down. John had allowed Sherlock to fly. But now, John had found a beautiful bird with colourful plumage. A bird who's feathers were laced with danger. A female bird. Mary.

All Sherlock knew was that his wings shattered. 

Mary overtook Sherlock. Sherlock was only a shadow now, and Mary was everything Sherlock was not. Funny, skinny, beautiful, confident...

Sherlock was jealous. He hated himself for not being the one John loved.

When John started dating Mary, Sherlock's depression came back full force. He started to despise his reflection in the mirror yet again, started wearing the jacket with the collar up, and cried constantly at night because of those ocean blue eyes. 

If only they had been a shade lighter.

Sherlock admitted he was in love with John. Never to John, himself, but to the bedpost and the window and every object in his room, planned what he'd say, what he'd do. He was grateful to John. John had pulled him from depression and in their Sherlock-John bubble Sherlock knew nothing could go wrong and he was content. That was, of course, until she appeared. 

Pop.

"Sherlock? Sh-Sherlock?" John hesitantly nudged his shoulder, and Sherlock hissed in pain from the pressure on a bruise.

Self inflicted? Does it matter?

Blinking, he returned to reality. Reality where John and Mary's wedding was happening, right now, and Sherlock needed to play the violin, right now.

"Right. Uh, okay." Sherlock forced a fake smile and lifted his violin and the sheet music to the front. Center stage, although he wasn't entirely convinced John saw him anymore.

The whole room was nearly silent. The crowd of people smiled and whispered among each other, and Sherlock started to shake. A large partition in the middle; room for them to dance. Room for Mary to dance for Sherlock.

When John had asked Sherlock to play violin for him at his wedding, he had been shocked. Horrified. Scared. Hurt. Nodded along anyways, because he was scared that John would think badly of him if he refused, and Sherlock just couldn't help running back.

Sherlock didn't know how many bruises he inflicted that night. Sitting in his bedroom, his fists collided with himself until he was a mess. His skin was blotched with purple and the tears just wouldn't stop flowing. His punches had become weaker and weaker until he stopped, fists resting on his thighs as he shook with suppressed sobs. It's not cutting, so it doesn't count as self harm, right?

John wasn't his. He never was.

How asinine of him to think so.

The next day Mary had come over. Sat in Sherlock's chair, his chair, and Sherlock paced. He had tried to make conversation with John several times, but got cut off by Mary everytime. Sherlock noticed how John's eyes lit up when Mary started talking.

John's eyes had never lit up for him.

Overshadowed by Mary, he sulked. When John finally did talk to him, he responded with half acceptable answers, because he knew, he was only there because Mary wasn't. He was a substitute. Second place. Second choice.

Sherlock always had to act as a bigger, bolder character when Mary was there. He had to be stranger than strange, smarter than smart, and got himself a reputation for being dramatic. 

Of course. He was. It was all theatrics when Mary was here.

John never seemed to know anything was wrong anymore. Sherlock never seemed to know whether he liked that better or not.

Sherlock had just realised the room had fell silent. How long had they been waiting?

Shakily, he lifted the violin up to his chin and raised the bow. Eyes quickly scanning over notes, although they kept darting up to John. Points of contact with Mary.

Feet.  
Waist.  
Arms.  
Hands.  
Eyes. Ocean blue eyes. 

The notes of the violin came out squeaking, and his eyes widened in fear. 

Johnisgoingtohatemejohnhatesmejohnhatesmejohnhatesmejohn

A reassuring glance from John was what he needed to resume playing, and thankfully he received one, but as the notes began to flow, so did their dancing, and they looked so happy and John didn't love him and the tears are flowing, falling-

The notes were shaking. The music emitted as squeaks, and the dancing stopped and the room fell silent and looked at him but Sherlock had tears running down his face and now they knew.

John gave him a puzzled look as with shaky hands, Sherlock lowered the bow, tears streaming down his face and dropped his violin with a resounding thud to the floor. 

Sherlock had ran, that night. Ran out of the hall, ran out of the crowd, ran out of John's life.

"SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK!" 

John was shouting after him but still he made no attempt to move as Mary held his arm tight. 

Sherlock didn't know much, he concluded. All he knew is he was about 1cm away from the cliff's edge, he estimated, and that the ocean down below was the same colour as her eyes.


End file.
